romantic justice

Man, cohabitation is doing a number on my social media presence, no two ways about it. I guess I just feel like a heel goofing around on Instagram when, say, the floor could stand to be mopped, or some other Shared Responsibility needs attending to. I want to be as good of a roommate as (I hope I've been!) a girlfriend. But I miss my IG buds, so I am in hot pursuit of that ever elusive thing of which I've heard tell: balance. Or if everyone could just co-sign a permission slip getting me out of housework for a couple days, I think I could catch up.


A thing happened this past weekend which has happened before, and which I never know quite how to handle. It's sort of crazy to me, but with a few notable exceptions over the last several years, I have an otherwise unbroken streak of Semi-Significant or Significant Former Romantic Partners reaching out, months or even years after the fact, to say, essentially, Oops. These oopses have taken various forms and vehemence, but usually boil down to Oops, I screwed up. Rarely is it Oops, I screwed up and I'd like another chance. More, Oops, I screwed up and was kind of a dick to you, and I'm sorry. Just wanted to say that. Take care.

If you've never been on the receiving end of an Oops, you probably think you'd love it. You probably think it would be the most validating or maybe even ego-stroking thing ever. Well it's not. Not for me, anyway. It's actually just sort of uncomfortable and sad-making. Like, Oh. Well. Hrm. Thank you, I guess? And it's okay? No worries? Because what do you say to that? In most cases, it really is okay, because I'm not the type to hold grudges, and I've been both the rejector and the rejectee, and I get it. Shit (life) happens. And it's sad-making because honestly, even if dude-in-question really did hurt me (and oh boy did some of them ever hurt me), it makes me feel bad to think that they've been spending all this time leading up to the oops feeling guilty or ashamed or otherwise negative. If I'd known that, I would have probably sent them a quick text or email or something to say, Yo, it's all good. Stop thinking about me and use that brain juice for something better.

It's uncomfortable because I don't like the idea that I'm holding onto some kind of key for anyone, that will unlock some door, letting them pass through to a place where they're maybe a little bit happier. What if I got hit by a bus before they tried the key? And who the hell am I that my forgiveness or acceptance matters? I'm just as fucked up as the next person. I'm no arbiter of romantic justice. Lord knows I've done my share of wounding. 

Ultimately it ends up being a good thing, even if throws me for a loop initially. It's nice to know that, if I were to run into a SSFRP or a SFRP on the street, we could say hello and not have to pretend not to have seen one another, or worse - duck into a shopfront to hide (yep, done that). It's nice to feel peacefulness in your heart, when you think of someone who once made your heart beat faster. It weighs a lot less than some other feelings. 


Terence and I spent part of Saturday scouring Pasadena for a pair of men's shorts that he hates so little as to be able to stand wearing them at Coachella this coming weekend, where it will be in the nineties and where, I have assured him, self-consciousness will be the very last thing he will be feeling. 

We were unsuccessful. He hates shorts like Craigslisters hate showing up at the agreed-upon time. 

But this was fun: while browsing at J. Crew he stopped at a table full of desk accessories and knick-knacks that caught his eye. "All this stuff is very Rainy Day," he said, causing me to nearly break my neck as a whipped my head around in surprise. 

"What did you say?" I demanded.

"All this stuff. Like, the fonts and colors or whatever. It reminds me of your design stuff."

So this would be the time to explain that Terence has only seen a few pages of my old template shop - and just once at that. I gave him a quick and dirty thirty second tour of the site and opened maybe a couple of the best designs. Yet apparently he paid close enough attention to be able to recall them well enough to make the comparison. Because he was right. It was a very Rainy Day-esque table of stuff. 

So that happened, and it was nice.


My friends who threw the pastel party last Easter are throwing another party this year, but this one is Hawaiian themed. They sent us a pair of beautiful Tiffany stemless wine glasses as a housewarming gift, so we've decided to do something fun for them and perform Pineapple Princess at the party as a surprise. 

It took Terence all of fifteen minutes to learn the music, it was ridiculous. As soon as he had the chords down, we practiced a few times before he suggested recording it, just so we'd have it for ourselves. And holy crap you guys. I mean, I can't sing for shit, and I'm horrifically off-key for most of it - but you can hear the big dumb smile on my face, because the whole time I was singing, this stupidly cute boy whom I've conned into loving me was just grinning away at me while he played. Listening to it afterward wasn't nearly as cringe-inducing as I thought it would be, and I realized that singing an Annette Funicello song accompanied by my boyfriend on ukelele would pretty much win the Twee Blogger Olympics, if I had the guts to post it. Not my sport, though. 


Chaucer is doing fine on his antibiotics; it seems like a very mild case of kennel cough (not that I have any idea, really; just basing that off how little he actually coughs). I'm trying to steer clear of other dogs as much as possible, but there are tons of them in my building. I'd take the stairs, but I don't want to stress him or his cough. It'd be more steps than he's up to, several times a day. He balks at more than two flights lately.

He's got an in-house sitter for Coachella, so I'm relieved about that. I hate leaving him period, much less when he's sick, but I was like, "Chauc, it's Muse. You understand, right buddy?" and he put his paw on my hand, nodded and said, "It's okay, Mom. I'd go too if they'd let me."

He basically hates his new roommate, by the way. In fact it's really sad to witness such a painful rejection.


In other festivEllie news: I'm skipping Bonnaroo this year. Thanks to the ridiculous amount of festing I've done the past few years, most of the headliners and 2nd/3rd tier performers I'll have seen after this year's Coachella, so it would be a lot of repeats. It would definitely be cool to see Elton John (who'll be doing his first festival performance ever), but other than that, there aren't any really big (read: new) draws for me. And apparently I'll be able to get my Silent Disco fix at Coachella this year, anyway! Though god knows when I'll squeeze that in. 

But if either of the two major rumors about Outside Lands are true (Bruce Springsteen, The Pixies), I would LOVE to go back to that. And obviously if Explosions In The Sky returns, I will sell plasma to make it happen. Lineup comes out Tuesday, so fingers crossed!

I'm also eyeing Bottle Rock in Napa, which is over my birthday weekend. The Cure, Weezer, Howie Day, and Camper Van Beethoven are enough to get me drooling, and there's plenty else tempting in the lineup, too. But before I'd even heard of Bottle Rock we'd made other plans for that weekend, so we'll probably just stick with those. But damn. Weezer. On my birthday


Okay well a quick re-read tells me that this is one of the lamest, one-note (boyfriendboyfriendboyfriend) scattershot posts I've written, so I'll go ahead and wrap it up for now. Oy.